


A Firm Hand

by hurricaneseason



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Power Dynamics, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneseason/pseuds/hurricaneseason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Argent is sick of these meddling kids, and catches Stiles outside his apartment complex one night. He's going to teach Stiles a lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Firm Hand

Allison would call him paranoid, but Chris Argent _does_ find the Stilinski kid prowling outside the apartment building around midnight. He’s on the sidewalk but also approximately under her window. He has a flashlight shoved into his mouth and is carefully concentrating on something in the bushes, holding something in his hand that Chris can’t make out.

It’s not hard to sneak up on him. 

Stiles yelps and the flashlight clatters to the ground, and his hands immediately retreat behind his back when Chris spins him around by the shoulders, walking him back into the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing out here?” he growls. “There are dangerous things out at night, especially this late.” He tries to put some edge into it, baring his teeth, and Stiles flinches, just for a second.

“What are _you_ doing out here?” Stiles says back, recovering quickly, eyes enormous in the light of the streetlamps. 

“Making sure no vagrants try to break into my daughter’s room at night.”

“What? That’s not even close to what I’m trying to do right now, okay, you’ve got it --”

“Sure,” he says and grabs a handful of Stiles’ hoodie, yanking until he follows awkwardly after.

The security guard just nods at him, on a smoke break, as he shoves Stiles into the lobby and then into the elevators. Stiles tries to break for it once but Chris catches him by the hair and pulls him into the apartment.

Allison’s at Lydia’s, or he wouldn’t do this, but he’s sick of seeing this kid and his monstrous best friend showing up around his family. Him and McCall are everywhere they shouldn’t be.

This one seems like the easiest to catch.

“C’mon,” Chris says, dragging him through the apartment after kicking his door closed.

“Ow ow ow ow ow let go,” Stiles is pulling on his arm and twisting and finally Chris does let go, only to twist his arm up against his back and shove him against the wall in his bedroom.

“Shut up,” he says.

“Why does this keep happening to me,” Stilinski says with what actually might be a long suffering sigh, head thunking against the wall. “Look, I swear, I wasn’t going to be anywhere near Allison’s room. Are you kidding me? There are way worse things in your building right now, Mr. Argent.”

“I said shut. Up.”

The kid takes a hard swallow. “Um. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. You don’t need to beat me up? You know I can’t take a beating well.”

Chris wasn’t planning on hurting him at all, not really. Maybe shaking him up a little, yelling at him. Put the fear of God in him. But.

“Seriously,” Stiles is saying, “I’m pretty much a wimp, so you can just uh, let me go now? I really wasn’t doing anything that concerns you at all, I promise! Please don't hit me.”

“You must be a handful for your dad,” Chris says, loosening his hold a little. Stiles relaxes a little bit under him. “Probably had to bend you over his knee all the time.”

Stiles goes rigid again. 

“No?” Stiles says, shifting uncomfortably against the wall. “My dad was more of a fan of timeout. A stern talking to.”

“Doesn’t sound like that did any good.” Chris shouldn’t be thinking about it, not really -- this kid isn’t his to discipline and he’d never disciplined his own kid like this to boot. He leans a little on Stiles’ arm.

He squeaks. Chris wonders what would shut him up.

“Then I think you need someone to take a firmer hand to keep you from snooping.”

He spins Stilinski around so his back is against the wall and pins him there.

Stiles is panicking again, trembling and big eyed. He looks soft -- Chris doesn’t often hunt prey species but something about this is strangely satisfying.

“Take off your belt,” Chris says, and lets him go.

Stiles is casing the room, eyes roaming, even as his hands drop shakily to his waist. The bedroom door is closed and the only light is from a couple lamps he left on when he headed outside to figure out what was in the bushes.

“Um, okay,” Stiles says, holding it limply in his hands. He looks absolutely bewildered. Chris takes the belt from him and stares him down. 

“Now unbutton your pants and shove them down to your knees.” He uses a firm tone, commanding. 

Chris has a desk in the corner and he pulls the chair out, watching Stiles from the corner of his eye. He was going to bend him over the bed but this seems more hands on, more visceral. More fun.

“Uh, I’m really not okay with the direction this is going, so if you could just let me out I promise I won’t tell anyone about it. Like seriously cross my heart. Forever.”

Chris lets him finish and slaps him in the face. 

Stiles doesn’t lose his balance but he yelps, rubbing his cheek. He looks terrified, a rabbit staring down a bear. He starts to unbutton his jeans, biting his lip when he pushes them past his skinny hips.

“Don’t make me do that again,” Chris says. Stiles nods, silent, and Chris sits down and spreads his thighs. 

“Come over here.”

Stiles shuffles awkwardly, the pants hampering his movement. Chris motions to his left side and Stiles moves there and stares at him.

“Boxers too.”

Stiles’ nostrils flare but he does it. Maybe he’s realized his words won’t help him out. 

Chris wonders if he needs to be more threatening to get Stiles all the way there. He thinks about pulling out a knife, maybe tying him up, but Stiles isn’t Allison’s dumbest friend. He recognizes the danger here.

“Alright, now bend over.”

Stiles balks again, and maybe he is an idiot. “Okay, no. One, how am I even gonna fit?”

He grabs Stiles’ hoodie strings and pulls until Stiles leans forward. “You’re not this stupid, are you?”

Stiles shakes his head wildly but he doesn’t seem to know what to do. 

“I guess I could have guessed that no one’s ever thrashed you properly, considering how mouthy you are. I’m gonna fix the problem your dad let you become,” Chris says. He’s not sure why he’s this angry; nothing points to Stiles actually being a threat. But he is angry, and Stiles is here.

Stiles’ eyes narrow at the crack at his dad. Chris pulls him off balance until Stiles topples over his thighs. He’s heavy. Tall. Too big for this, probably.

“Oof,” Stiles says. Chris is tall and his desk chair is tall, and he tips Stiles’ head toward the ground, leaving his legs a little bit bent as his feet touch the wood floor. Stiles’ arms shoot out to hold himself steady, trying to balance in the weird position. He’s still got his shoes on, and his pants and boxers are tangled up around his shins. His flaccid dick hangs between Chris’ legs. 

His legs are pale, lean -- Chris knows he’s been running track. He rests a hand on Stiles’ thigh.

“Since this is your first time being disciplined properly, I’ll be nice and give you a choice. Count and you get fewer hits, but if you mess up we start at the beginning. Don’t count and you won’t know how many licks you’re getting, but you won’t be able to mess it up.”

“I can count,” Stiles says at the floor. He’s trying to be still, finally, the reality of the situation settling in. A muscle in his leg keeps flexing nervously.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Chris says, squeezing Stiles’ thigh. “But first I’m gonna warm you up. No need to count this; I’m gonna hit you til you’re nice and rosy.”

Stiles yelps in surprise when Chris hits his ass the first time, but he doesn’t make much noise after that, just squirms and kicks out his legs. Chris holds him down with a hand between his shoulder blades and listens to his breathing in between smacks.

He doesn’t start lightly because he doesn’t have the patience. When was the last time he was in a good fight? Really got to dig his claws into something? He can barely remember, so the rush of this boy under his palm is fast and heady.

Stiles is clenching up with each hit, his muscles going rigid as he figures out Chris’ pattern. Every ten or so hits Chris can hear him breathe out a number -- he can’t stop himself from counting, grounding himself. 

“Stop moving,” Chris growls when Stiles wriggles his hips. Chris punctuates it with five hits to the same spot, right on the crease of ass and thigh. That gets a noise out of Stiles, a hurt one.

Chris shifts his thigh inward and he can feel Stiles’ cock, half hard. His ass is turning red, maybe bruising a little. Chris should stop now, let this kid pull up his pants and leave.

Stiles hasn’t even started crying yet, though. Chris reaches his arm back and pulls Stiles’ belt off the desk.

He loops it -- it’s leather and simple. Chris has hit people like this before, interrogating, but those were body blows. It doesn’t do well to mix work and this kind of pleasure.

“You ready to count, boy?”

Stiles coughs, says, “Please let me go.”

Chris sighs and shakes his head. “I guess you’re not ready to count.”

He snaps the leather down -- the swings would hurt more if he had Stiles bent over something, like his bed, but this is better. He can feel the way Stiles bucks, the air leaving his lungs in a surprised and sharp exhale.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start whimpering. Chris is letting the hits cross over each other, lick around his hips, smack over the same spot again and again. Stiles’ legs kick out, and he breaks on stripe 15, a fully wracked sob rattling out of him.

His hands are never quite secure on the floor and he’s jerking when Chris smacks him ten more times, trying to escape Chris’ hold.

“You need a break.”

“Please, please let me go,” Stiles croaks out and Chris hauls him up, adjusting him until he can shove his fingers into Stiles’ mouth.

“Shut up,” he says, “and don’t bite.” He taps Stiles’ ass in warning and Stiles moans around his fingers, pleading. Chris’ other hand is rubbing over Stiles’ ass lightly, making the kid’s cock jerk. It lost interest for a while, but Chris is sure he can wake it up. He jostles his knee against Stiles’ cock and Stiles moans around his fingers even as he tries to shake his head no.

Chris pets up Stiles’ back, shoving his shirts up and stroking down his spine. Stiles’ body quits moving so much and he actually starts suckling Chris’ fingers when Chris rubs soothing circles over his abused ass.

“There we go. Settle down. You’re gonna take all of what I’m gonna give you, and not less, okay?”

Stiles says something against the digits in his mouth and Chris pulls them out. They’re wet, sticky with saliva, and Chris can’t resist. He lays the belt across Stiles’ back and uses his dry hand to spread Stiles’ hot cheeks apart. 

There’s a soft trail of fuzz from his lower back and down his crack, downy hair on his cheeks, and his hole is clenched and dark. Chris prods at it with a wet index finger and Stiles’ body entirely seizes up, jerking so hard Chris has to grab him with both hands.

“Shit, relax,” he says and Stiles isn’t broken, shoving against him until he ends up on the floor, a tangle of too long limbs and his unbuttoned jeans.

“Let me go, please,” he says as he scrambles away, crab walking backward. Stiles looks less gangly and open-mouthed now, his hair a mess and his face bright red and tracked in tears.

Chris stands up. “Fine.”

Stiles stills for a second but he’s spooked and he doesn’t move even when Chris barks, “on your knees!” at him.

Chris sighs, grabbing the dropped belt and looming over Stiles, grabbing him and hauling him up.

Stiles swings a wild fist and Chris elbows him hard in the gut, making him double over in Chris’ hold. Now Chris drops him over the edge of the bed, ass out, hands grabbing at the duvet.

“Take it,” he hisses, and he lets the belt fly. It’s loud in his room and Stiles’ shouts barely register, and he reaches under the boy and pumps him every ten or so hits until he’s fully erect and rubbing against the bed with every lick. Chris is going to break him now.

He’s way past where he thought he’d be when he dragged Stiles up here that evening but he has to commit now. Chris hates leaving things halfway, even if his arm twinges. 

Stiles shuts up, finally, legs no longer kicking, body sinking into the mattress. His ass is a mess -- Chris broke the skin a few times, blood seeping slowly out of the cuts, and his hips are rocking a little and his mouth is just open. He’s breathing hard and Chris shoves his fingers in his mouth again.

“Suck,” he says, and Stiles does. His eyes are squeezed tight, and tears leak out of them as he coats Chris’ fingers with spit.

Spreading his cheeks gets him a whimper but Chris just presses on, one finger slowly and steadily breaching the boy until the second knuckle. The resistance is beaten out of him -- he couldn’t tighten up his muscles if he tried, exhausted and aching. Chris manages to get a second one in with just spit, even though he doubts it’s comfortable. 

He presses against the hot inside of Stiles’ body, fascinated by the way it swallows him, until his finds his prostate. It’s not a romantic affair; he presses until Stiles cries out, shout muffled by the bed.

“Ungh, what,” he says, trying to make words, but his mind is now totally scrambled, unwanted pleasure getting him to buck his hips as Chris artlessly fucks his fingers into him.

Stiles is writhing now, panting and trying to push himself up, maybe pull himself off of Chris. It doesn’t matter -- he’s hard, dripping with it, and Chris smacks his ass a few times before yanking his fingers out. 

He wipes them on the bed and says, “Get on your knees.”

Stiles turns his head and stares at him, eyes unfocused, but he does eventually get himself to his feet. Chris presses hard on his shoulder til he drops, and Chris unbuttons his own pants, freeing his cock from his briefs.

“You’re gonna suck me now, and then this’ll be over. Think of it like thanking me.”

Stiles blinks at him. His head is somewhere else, so Chris just grabs a handful of hair and pulls his face forward until his dick hits Stiles’ lips.

“Open,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against the seam of Stiles’ mouth, getting it damp with precome.

Stiles does, and Chris fucks into it. The kid may be a world-class cocksucker, but Chris doesn’t care enough to find out. He’s addled enough that Chris can just jackhammer into his soft palate, down his throat, until he gags.

Chris presses on, close, really close, and then he’s there as Stiles is choking around him, throat and eyes bulging. His nose is snotty, his eyes are watering, and Chris slides his dick out with a pop.

Stiles looks broken now. Would probably tell him anything if he asked, the skin on his bottom lip cracked, cheeks flushed and stained with tear tracks. 

Chris feels good. Something in his gut settles.

“Pull up your pants and get out,” Chris says and Stiles shuts his mouth and nods. He wipes his face on his hoodie sleeve, looking younger by the second, and turns and runs.

Chris is going to forget this ever happened.

-

Stiles can’t run all the way home. His body hurts, aches, pain radiating up his back and down his legs from his ass. But he would if he could.

Instead he manages to limp back to his car and drive himself home, going slow. His dad is passed out, thank god, and he crawls his way up the stairs to his room. He doesn’t even bother to get undressed, just leans against his shut and locked door and grabs his dick in his jeans.

He shoots, the orgasm more pain than pleasure, and knocks his head against the wood behind him.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Scott.


End file.
